Reginald Bullock was many things but rarely late. He prided himself on that, if not on much else. He arrived at his desk in the Investigation Department of Magical Law Enforcement at 9 o’clock sharp every morning, and, considering how punctual it was that he arrived, he considered it completely right that he leave his desk at precisely 5 o’clock every afternoon, without fail. What he did in the hours between, of course, was another matter altogether.

Which was one of many reasons why he was none too pleased to reach his desk the next morning at exactly 9 o’clock and find things were not as he had left them at 5 o’clock the day before. For a moment, he almost thought that he had walked to the wrong desk entirely, as he did not recognize it. It was only after he counted and found that it occupied the exact position where his desk usually was that he realized it was the desk that was the problem. First and foremost, that he could see it.

He could see the entire cubicle, in fact, including the floor, which was now bare and showed the world exactly what color the carpet had been some twenty years ago. The papers, the stacks and stacks of them, were gone. All that remained was a single, slim pile of files that sat in the middle of his now clean desk. The only other thing in his cubicle was the person responsible for all of this, a pearl-haired Patrolwitch who sat calmly in a chair opposite his own.

“Good morning, Mr. Bullock,” Rhi said as she looked up to him from her chair. Reg stared. His turn to goggle.

It took him a minute, several in fact, to find the words, but at last he did, or one word to be precise. “What?”

“I took the liberty of tidying up,” she replied, a look of extreme, though measured, satisfaction on her face.

“Where?” came his follow-up.

“I also took the liberty of working through your paperwork,” she said with a smile. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know most of it was woefully outdated. The rest was either irrelevant, a closed file, or something that pertained to a case being working by another investigator. I forwarded the relevant paperwork on to the proper office.” Rhi folded her hands and smiled at the obtuse investigator.

“How?” he now asked.

“Well, sir, you’d be surprised what one can do when one is focused on the task at hand.”

He looked around again at the bare office, landing back on the single stack of files on his desk. No need to guess what those were. He stalked over, dropped himself in his chair, and stared at Gillford as hard as he could.

“If ole Vince Freeman cared two knuts about this case, he never would have told you to bring it to me in the first place.”

And Rhi was cross, she wanted to be, but she could feel it draining, the righteous fury, to be replaced with the disappointed, defeated feeling she had felt last night. It made sense. It made perfect sense when you remembered the people involved.

“I’m bettin’ Vince didn’t tell you about me, did he?”

Rhi looked up at Reg. She shook her head.

“I didn’t think so,” he said and sat back. “Gillford, I’m not exactly what you call popular. I doubt anyone would even call me competent. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit of a nobody. But the Investigation Department gets a lot of cases, and sometimes they get a case that they sort of know isn’t going to go anywhere. Maybe there’s not enough evidence, maybe it’s just not important enough to. When they come upon that case, they send it down to Reg Bullock.” He held his arms out to where piles and piles of files had once stood, and Rhi recalled the man’s reaction yesterday when she had asked for Reginald Bullock’s desk. Laughter. “This is where cases go to die, miss.”

Rhi just stared down at the desk, at the files. It made sense, of course. She had begun to suspect it yesterday. Mr. Freeman’s sudden change of heart, giving the case its due, giving her exactly what she wanted. She knew better, but, at the time, she had been too eager, too excited at the mere prospect. Last night, it seemed easier to blame Mr. Bullock’s apparent apathy; it seemed easier to think if she just made it easier, then maybe there would be a chance. She had hoped, which is something she rarely allowed herself and for this very reason.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Gillford,” Reg said and tapped a finger on the files. “But three dead muggles just isn’t important enough for anyone better than Reginald Bullock.”

Rhi looked up. She wanted to hate him, this fat, lazy man before her, but there was something in his voice, a resignation. Something told her, somewhere deep inside, maybe Reginald Bullock didn’t like the way things were either, but he didn’t see that there wasn’t anything to be done about it.

Slowly, she rose from her seat. As there didn’t seem to be anything else to say, Rhi turned and stepped out of the cubicle. She left Reg to his empty desk, presumably to nap. She walked mindlessly down the hall, bereft of thought, of hope. She made it nearly to the lifts before it finally clicked.

The man’s feet immediately dropped to the floor, shooting his body up and nearly out of his seat and throwing his cap onto his knees. He came to quite forcibly and stared around for who or what had caused this completely unasked-for situation. He settled at last on the pearl-haired woman staring daggers at him.

“Who are you?” he said, then rubbed his eyes and repeated. “Who are you?”

“Reginald Bullock?” Rhi asked.

“No, that’s me,” he replied, replacing the cap on his balding head. “I’m asking who you are.”

Rhi bit her lip but stood to attention, holding her helmet tightly against her hip. “Rhiannon Gillford, Patrolwitch.”

Mr. Bullock stared at the memo as if he expected it to do something. Rhi held it out more earnestly until he finally took it. Reginald unfolded it slowly, glancing up at the Patrolwitch, who was still standing there. He read the memo, glancing back up at her again once he had finished.

“An assignment, you say?” he droned.

“Yes, sir,” Rhi replied and held out the files. “It’s very important.”

Reginald took the files but did not make to open them. He just stared back at Rhi, who stared back at him.

“Important?” he asked. “Really?”

Rhi nodded most assuredly.

“I see,” he droned again. He continued to stare at her, then, somehow resigned to his fate, sat back in his chair. “Well, then, I’ll get right on it.” And he tossed the file on top of the nearest stack and set himself back in his chair, making all the moves, it seemed, to resume his former activity.

Rhi goggled at the files he had so nonchalantly tossed on the pile. She went slack-jawed, wordless, for a whole minute. It didn’t make any sense.

“Um, excuse me, sir,” she tried. Reg opened an eye to stare at her over his nose. She pointed at the files. “Aren’t you going to at least read them?”

Reg Bullock sighed. A look that almost bordered on pity crossed his face.

“I’ll get around to it,” he finally replied. He then motioned a hand to the rest of his cubicle. “But, as you can see, I have quite the caseload.” He then leaned back again.

Rhi clenched her fists. Today was seriously testing her.

“Sir,” she said with as much force as still felt respectful. “I really think you should prioritize this case. People have died.”

Reg again stared at her with one eye. “That so?”

“Yes!” she nearly shouted but caught herself. “Sir, it is very important. I have been assigned as your assistant for this case. If you would like I can go over the facts for you.”

“Assistant?” he asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, sir. I’ve done the preliminary investigation into the circumstances.”

“That so?” he said, leaning forward.

“Yes,” she answered, quickly growing weary of this man.

“Well, good for you,” he said and settled back into a resting position. “Showing initiative.”

Rhi’s fists were clenched so tight she could feel her pulse. What was going on? This man didn’t seem interested at all in the case, in any case for that matter, considering the state of his office. She wondered how anyone could get away with such a thing. None of this made sense. Hadn’t he read the memo? Should she report him? But the thought of going back to Mr. Freeman’s office filled her with dread. She had barely managed to convince him to let her take this case up. If she came back with the excuse that the investigator he had assigned didn’t want it, he might let the case go entirely, or worse, think she was making it up in order to pursue it herself.

She decided to wait the man out. It wouldn’t be the first time. Rhi could be annoying when she wanted, and when she didn’t. But she knew how to play the waiting game.

She stood for some time in Bullock’s office, staring him down, but to no avail. He simply lay there, looking to all as if he were quite soundly, and contendedly, asleep. In the waiting game, it seemed, Reginald Bullock was a champion. After close to an hour, Rhi finally left. Her shift had ended some time ago, and she realized she had had nothing to eat since supper last night. Her body and brain were crying out for food and rest in equal measure.

She didn’t bother heading back to the Patrol Office but instead went to the lifts. She had started to put together the true facts of the day. She made her way back up to the roof, mounted her broom, cast the appropriate spells with her wand, as it was daytime, and flew home. She landed on the balcony of her flat a few minutes later, disappointed and tired. Rhiannon stripped off her robes as she went inside, tossing them on the couch before heading to bed, where she flopped down, exhausted and utterly defeated.

She had a shift that night, a simple patrol, like her usual. It was uneventful, as they usually were. Rhi had learned long ago that if she wanted to do actual work she’d have to go looking for it, which she had, and she had seen where it landed her. All the while, during her flight, she couldn’t shake the image of Reginald Bullock tossing the files, her intricate, exhaustive work, onto a pile of identical papers, to be lost, forgotten it seemed.

It didn’t make sense, she told herself. Only it did, she knew. It made perfect sense when you considered the people involved. It made perfect sense when you considered that people were involved.

Still, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just, which was a key word for Rhi, a guiding principle. But not so much even to Rhi, that she didn’t care so much about, but the image that stuck with her was the mother of a dead boy, whose eyes were puffy from crying until she couldn’t anymore.

She made her way back to the Ministry around midnight. She went down to level two and was almost at her desk when she stopped. It was then that she remembered something, something she had learned long ago in a place she missed everyday.

The world wasn’t fair, all the more the reason to make it so.

Rhi turned on her heels suddenly and walked towards the Investigation Department.

It would be a lie to say I don’t know what it’s like to not be alone. I’ve been blessed to have many experiences to the contrary. But the truth is I don’t know what it’s like to not want to not be alone.

It’s complicated. Which is the simplest and probably only way to describe it. And I could go on into all the aspects that I’ve felt and still feel it. Familial, friendship, romantic. But mostly the thing I keep struggling with is the fact that I keep struggling with it.

I always thought adulthood or maturity or whatever was being able to handle things better. Looking back, it makes sense why I would think that. Because there are a lot of things I’ve never known how to handle well. So, naturally, I’d assume that growth meant getting better at those things.

And getting better means not being bothered when you don’t get the things you want, right?

And maybe that’s the biggest thing about it all: not getting what I want. Of course, it sounds so immature saying it out loud. The complaint of a child. But there is something about wanting and not getting. Really, really wanting, continually wanting, again and again, and not getting.

I don’t know if relationships are about finding the people who want you the same way you want them or about learning that no one will ever want you the same way you want them and just learning to live with that. The latter feels depressing, but there are days the former feels impossible.

I don’t know.

I don’t know if that feeling, the empty kind of gnawing where you know you’re missing something, ever goes away. I don’t know if I’m meant to carry it better or to put it down entirely. If there’s always some part of us that wants to not be what we sometimes are. I don’t know if life is about making peace with it. I don’t know if constantly dreaming and hoping and praying to have what you want more than anything in the world is right or not.

I just know it’s real.

And maybe it’s no coincidence I’m writing this today, of all days. A day about waiting for things when hope seems lost. It feels trite, but I’ll take it.

Because I’ve learning the waiting is part of it.

What I haven’t learned is whether the waiting earns you the thing itself or if waiting just teaches you what you really want because the waiting is all there is.

What I haven’t learned is how not to envy everyone else, to look at all the people who got it and wonder “how?” and “what am I doing wrong?”

What I have learned is that you have to keep going. It’s not always clear, but any progress is better than no progress. And hope, even the far-fetched kind, is far better than despair.

I do know we can stop treating the whole thing as terribly easy. It’s people. They were never meant to be.

I do know none of this will ever be an excuse to disrespect another person and their choices. We are all trying to find our best. If I’m not theirs, then who would I be if I held that against them?

I do know we can wake up tomorrow and try again. I do know that things find us as much as we go looking for other things, and there’s no harm in being tired. And before we judge someone for spending another Saturday by themselves, we can remind each other that community has never been a thing you can just dial up. It’s a slow burn no matter what.

It’s all a slow burn. All of it. That’s the frustrating and hopeful thing. We won’t always be able to see it. Times like that make it easy to listen to the voices in our head. But something is being made. If we just show up for it.

Suddenly a small device on Vincent’s desk began to beep. A little, clock-shaped box opened up and a tiny gold sprite popped out. It circled the box three times, crying out, “Appointment! Appointment! Appointment!”, and then quickly disappeared back inside.

“I’m due for a meeting with the head of Magical Law Enforcement,” Vincent replied and got up from his desk without another word. The matter, it appeared, was completely settled, as far as he was concerned.

Rhi clenched her fists again. She stared at the files stacked on the edge of Mr. Freeman’s desk. This was it. Time to play the trump card.

“I understand, sir,” she said. Vincent smirked at this as he opened the door. “I’ll just discuss the case with her then.”

The door suddenly slammed shut. Vincent spun back to Gillford and was met by the pearl-haired woman’s steely gaze. For a second, he looked ready to shoot fire, probably literally, straight at her, but, a second later, his face softened. Something crossed his features, and a slight grin played for a moment over his lips, before disappearing.

“All right, Gillford,” he said, too calmly. “You want it to be investigated. So be it.”

And to Rhi’s surprise, he strode back to his desk and picked up another piece of memo paper. He jotted something down on it, folded it up, and handed it to Rhi.

“Take this down to the Investigation Department,” he said with a too warm smile. “Mr. Reginald Bullock. I think he’s your man. Give him this,” he said, pointing to the memo. “And tell him the case is his, and I’ve assigned you as his assistant for the duration.”

This sudden change unnerved Rhi, but she knew enough to know she couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Not with a case like this. She took the memo. Mr. Freeman flashed that smile again, returned the files to Rhi, and ushered her out of his office.

Officer Gillford stood bewildered for a moment, outside Mr. Freeman’s office, as he bustled off to his meeting. She clutched the files in one hand and the memo in the other. It didn’t seem quite real. Mr. Freeman had never once approved one of her recommendations. Not for a standardized filing system. Not for her “bloodhoud snitch” idea. And certainly not for any case she had ever brought to his attention. And yet, here she was, with a memo in her hand and the permission from the head of Magical Patrol to elevate the matter to a real Investigator, with her in assistance.

She finally looked up from her thoughts and stared at the entire Magical Patrol office, which stared intently back at her. They had, no doubt, heard everything, and were likely as surprised as she. Still, she reminded herself. She couldn’t pass up the opportunity. There was work to be done.

Rhi walked back to her desk, stopping herself once or twice from running back in her enthusiasm. She tidied her desk back the way she liked to leave it, grabbed her helmet and her broom, and walked out of the office, stopping herself again from running full speed.

The Investigation Department of Magical Law Enforcement was laid out in a similar fashion to the Patrol Office. There was a wide room, lined with desks, but each was encased in a little cubicle, with walls just high enough to create a false sense of privacy, which could easily be broken by a neighboring coworker popping their head up to look in on their neighbor.

Rhi stood before the maze of desks for a moment. She was trying to look official, which her own earnestness was making hard. For years, this had been exactly where she wanted to be. Now she was here, but, it occurred to her, she didn’t actually know where to go.

She tried to flag down a passing wizard but hesitated, as she was sure they were engrossed in serious work. A pair passed by her muttering about “bloody Umbridge”, and she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. Finally, however, she built up the courage and approached one of the cubicles.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began, and a rather exhausted looking wizard stared at her over his glasses. “But I was looking for Investigator Bullock. Where might I find him?”

“Reg?” the man asked quizzically.

“Reginald Bullock, yes.”

“What do you need him for?” he said with his eyes screwed up in a curious way.

Rhi held up the memo. “I have an assignment here from Mr. Freeman for him,” she said and felt the need to add, “It’s very important.”

“Important,” the man said with a sly grin. “For Reginald Bullock?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“I’ll bet,” he said and chuckled. Rhi didn’t understand it. He pointed down the row of cubicles. “All the way to the end and two rows to the left.”

“Thank you,” Rhi said.

“Good luck,” the wizard shouted after her with another laugh.

The conversation had confused her, but Rhi made her way to Mr. Bullock’s desk, following the man’s directions. All the way to the end and two rows to the left, she came upon a nondescript, yet somehow still shabby-looking cubicle. When she stepped inside, she immediately noticed a few things. First of all, she couldn’t step inside, as it seemed every available inch of floor space in the tiny cubicle was occupied by papers. Files, parchments, memos, all were piled, some waist high, over the ground and on the desk, or where Rhi guessed the desk was.

The second thing she noticed was that the only thing absent from the cubicle seemed to be Investigator Bullock. She looked around, but everything was paper. It was then that her ears caught a sound. Breathing, she thought at first, then gradually realized was snoring. Someone was asleep inside this place, and she soon discovered where.

Among the stacks and stacks of papers, two leather shoes jutted out, perched atop the only corner of the desk that wasn’t covered by anything else. The shoes were connected to legs, which disappeared under a folded-out copy of the Daily Prophet, which seemed to be acting as, quite effective, camouflage for the dozing man underneath. The only indicator that the man beneath was there, and alive, was the telltale movement of the paper as he snored in and out.

Rhi yanked the paper away, revealing a black man with a bushy handlebar mustache, quietly napping, a wool cap pulled over his eyes. The man was dressed in dark, burgundy robes, open showing a waistcoat and matching pants, which were neatly pressed. The sleeping man’s hands were folded on his stomach, which was quite prominent and, coupled with his medium stature, gave him the impression of being very round.

Rhi cleared her throat. The man made no movement or indication of rousing. She cleared her throat louder. The man replied by sniffling a bit, wiggling his mustache back and forth, then returned to snoring rhythmically. Rhi sighed in frustration. She looked around for options and spied the man’s feet, perched on the desk. She gave him a minute, then, seeing he was content to continue dozing, she placed a hand next to his shoes and quickly pushed them off the desk.

“Suicides!” Mr. Freeman spat back so loud the rest of the office was sure to have heard it. “What the bloody hell are you thinking, Gillford?”

“I’m thinking the mysterious deaths of three otherwise healthy, sane Muggles should warrant the concern of Magical Law Enforcement,” she nearly shouted back. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, which was sorely tested whenever she had an interaction with Mr. Freeman.

“Muggles die, Gillford,” was his only reply, and Rhi’s hands suddenly squeezed into tight fists. She breathed again. “It’s tragic, but it happens,” he continued.

“If you will allow me to explain,” she started again. Being patient, it seemed, hadn’t worked. Now it was time to be direct. “These men were not suicidal.”

“How exactly does one tell that?” he shot back to her frustration.

Still, Rhi held her tongue. Mr. Freeman’s usual sarcasm was not helping, but she soldiered on.

“And the manner of their suicides was most unusual,” she continued.

“It says this one was hit by a…” He looked through the top file again. “What’s a ‘truck’?”

“It’s a large vehicle Muggles use to transport goods.”

“And getting run over by them is uncommon?”

“Not entirely, but-“

“And this one jumped off a building?” He pointed to another of the files. “Working late, you say so yourself. Overworked is more like it.”

“Perhaps, still the first man ran into a lake,” Rhi said insistently, nearly losing her dispassionate tone. “Ran, Mr. Freeman.“

“Gillford, I’m waiting to be convinced.”

Frustrated, she yanked the headphones, in their bag, out of her pocket and practically slammed them on his desk.

“What are these?” he asked.

“They’re called headphones,” Rhi replied, desperately trying to hold her temper in check. “Muggles use them to listen to music.”

“And they are important because?”

Out of another pocket, Rhi fished out her crystal and held it out towards Mr. Freeman.

“What is that?”

“It’s an occulometer,” Rhi sighed. “It can detect the presence of strong magic.” And she added, for good measure, “I sent you a memo about it months ago. I recommended all Patrol Officers be equipped with them.”

Vincent gave her a look that told her he recalled the memo only for the time it had taken him to toss it into the bin. In answer to this and his original question, she turned her hand over and let the crystal drop from her palm and dangle by its cord, right over the headphones.

The crystal immediately began to glow and spin, with that blue green flash.

“Nice trick,” was Mr. Freeman’s reply. “What does it mean?”

“It means something very magical was used on these headphones.”

“They’ve been cursed?”

“I’m not sure. But something has definitely been done with them, and it’s a sure bet it has something to do with the death of the Muggle boy who wore them.” And before he could raise another objection, Rhi cut in, “And I had the same reaction with the occulometer at each of the other scenes, which means they are related.” She pointed at the headphones. “This is the first piece of hard evidence and the strongest reaction I’ve seen from the crystal yet. Something is going on here. Something magical, Mr. Freeman.”

Vincent looked up at her as she stood back, breathing hard, clenching her fists. This is what always happened. Gillford came in with some case that demanded his attention, only to get worked up when he didn’t agree with her assessment. He sighed and shook his head.

“If it’s something with these, (headphones did you say?), then it’s a matter for Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. I’ll send it over to them.”

Rhi groaned. This was also what always happened. The best she could ever expect from Mr. Freeman was to have her work passed off to another office. It was his favorite pastime: leaving work for someone else.

“And in three months, when they finally get around to investigating,” Rhi replied. “The trail will have gone cold.”

“What trail, Gillford?” he began, but Rhi was having none of it.

“We need to investigate further,” she insisted. To hell with being dispassionate.

“What would you have me do, Gillford?” he snapped back, rising from his chair. “What do you suspect? Dark Wizards? That’s the Auror’s office. Some murderous beast? That’s Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Some unfortunate accident? Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. We are Magical Patrol, emphasis on Patrol. We patrol and refer on. We do not investigate.”

“I just feel that there is more going on here, sir,” Rhi tried patience again, hoping to convince the man. “The witnesses reported nothing out of the ordinary. The latest victim’s own mother claimed he had been behaving normally.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I asked her, sir,” she replied, again before she could think better.

“You did what?!?” the man stammered.

“As part of the investigation. I took witness statements. It’s all in the file.”

“You talked to Muggles about this?” he asked, more astonished at her lack of concern than anything else.

“About the incidents. Yes, sir.”

“And you at least had the good sense to wipe their memories after you did?” he asked, hoping against hope that she had the good sense.

“No,” Rhi replied, somewhat surprised. Honestly, it had been the last thing on her mind.

“Bloody hell!” Vincent screamed, again, more than loud enough for the whole office to have heard, as he dropped back into his chair. “I’ll have to get the Obliviators out there, at once.” He grabbed a sheet of paper and began to furiously write up a memo, only for Gillford’s hand to suddenly fall on it, blocking his quill.

“You can’t erase their memories!” she cried.

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because they have information pertinent to the case,” she replied. “What if they recall something? You could jeopardize the whole investigation.”

“There is no investigation, Gillford,” Vincent hissed under his breath, aware now of the volume of his voice. “We are not in the habit of letting Muggles know about magic and not erasing their memories of that fact.”

“They don’t know about magic.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell them magic was involved,” she said suddenly calm. “I only questioned them about the victims. As far as they are concerned, I was just another muggle police officer asking questions.” It surprised Rhi to no end how so many wizards seemed to not know how little most Muggles questioned the world around them.

After a minute, Vincent set the memo aside. Taking this as a good sign, Rhi continued.

“I believe, Mr. Freeman, that this case warrants further investigation,” she said. She paused to take a deep breath, and now for the really hard-to-swallow bit. “And I respectfully request that I be allowed to do so.”

Vincent’s eyes went wide and then narrowed, as if he had expected all along.

“I see,” he replied. “So that’s your game is it, Gillford? Looking to move up in the world?”

“No, sir. I simply think there is value in maintaining continuity with the investigation. That way another officer doesn’t have to start over from scratch.”

Vince drummed his fingers on the table, casting a judgmental eye on Rhiannon, which she refused to return.

“Well, Gillford, that’s not up to you,” he said and tossed the files aside. “I’ll consider your notes and assign the case to the necessary office.”

And Part 4! What can I say? I'm on a roll. Check out parts One, Two, and Three.

Enjoy.

The roof entrance for the Ministry of Magic was infrequently used, even during the day, so Rhiannon was not surprised to find herself alone as she descended the gilded stairs. Most Ministry employees preferred direct entrances, such as the Floo Network. Even most of the Special Broom Service of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, of which Rhiannon was a member, preferred to apparate in and out. However, she had always preferred using her broom whenever possible and had been happy to discover the roof entrance years ago, in her first few months working at the Ministry. This immediately set Officer Gillford off from her fellow Patrolwitches and wizards, but it was one fact among many that did so. Indeed, she had long since made a name for herself as a very different breed of patrol officer, much to the chagrin of her superiors, much to the delight of Rhi, as she was called by her friends, which were few.

She took the stairs to the top floor of the Ministry, where a bank of grated lifts stood. She took the nearest and descended to level two.

The Ministry itself, naturally, was all but deserted at this hour. Most of the Night Patrol was out on assignment, and any other Ministry official had long since gone home. So it was Gillford alone with the occasional house elf scurrying here and there, part of the maintenance staff.

Rhi preferred the solitude. It gave her the space to work free of distraction, which seemed too often to be something her coworkers did not value. She stepped out of the lift onto an empty floor, walked down an empty hallway, and stepped out into a vast room with row after row of desks. Rhi made her way past the endless rows, finding her desk, which wasn’t hard as it was by far the neatest. The nearest desks were piled high with files and general clutter, but Rhi’s was the picture of tidiness. The in and out bins with their files neatly stacked, each itself squared against the corners of the desk. Her inkpot and several quills, laid out neatly, not a spot of ink on her blotter. The one personal item she allowed herself was the framed photo of her parents, which, unlike many of the photos that were littered over her coworkers’ desks, did not move.

Rhi took a seat at her desk, hanging her broom on a hook off the side and her helmet on a similar hook next to it. She smoothed her hair down, which, despite being unmoved, Officer Gillford was ever self-conscious about. Confident not a single strand of moon-bright hair was out of place, she set herself to work.

From a drawer in her desk, Rhi pulled out three files. She set two down and opened the third, which bore the label “Kyle Corden”. She fished out her pad and pencil from her pocket and, suddenly remembering, pulled out the headphones from another pocket in her robes, dropping them into a silvery, translucent bag she took from another drawer of the desk.

With the pad open to the appropriate page, she began to transcribe her notes onto a paper in the file. She checked other pages, referring back to her previous research as she continued to write.

She opened up the other two files, labeled “Richard Grissom” and “Marcus Attenborough” respectively, and began to compare her new findings. Her initial suspicions seemed to be supported. Something was definitely not right. Still, she had to wonder if it would be enough.

She worked the rest of the night, reviewing the evidence over and over again. It was monotonous, but she didn’t mind, and she had to be thorough. It was the only way they’d believe her. So the rest of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol Officers found her still working steadily at her desk when they trickled in the next morning. Gillford working all night was not so surprising, but it was clear to all who glanced her way that she was working on a very different level and was not to be disturbed.

At half-past nine, Rhi checked her pocket watch and glanced up to one end of the room, to an office door. She quickly gathered up her files, tucked them under her arm, and marched off towards the door at the far end of the room. Her coworkers quickly took notice. It was never a good sign when Gillford was walking towards the office of the Head of Magical Patrol, especially when she had that look on her face. The still, determined one. Everyone focused on their work just enough to look like they were working, but everyone strained an ear towards the door.

Rhi was aware of their sudden interest, but she was undeterred. When she reached the door she rapt it quickly twice and waited patiently for an answer.

“Come in,” came a voice on the other side. Rhi opened the door and quietly let herself in, closing it behind her.

Vincent Freeman sat with his head resting securely between his palms as he surveyed the collection of memos that had been waiting for him this morning.

“What can I do for you?” he replied absentmindedly when the door closed, then looked up and immediately groaned when he saw who it was.

“Mr. Freeman,” Rhi immediately began and held the files out towards the Head of Magical Patrol, who did not reach for them. “I think I have something serious here,” she added.

“Do you now, Gillford?” Vincent sighed, eyeing the files but leaving them in the patrolwitch’s hand. “Is it as serious as the last one?”

“Far more serious, sir,” she replied in all sobriety. She motioned with the files, still held out in front of him. After a minute, he sighed and reluctantly took the files from her and set them on the desk. Slowly, he thumbed through them. He seemed to be waiting for her to start talking. That is certainly how it had gone before. Rhi was usually too eager to launch into an explanation of the case.

Only she didn’t. Instead, she stood quietly, arms behind her back, and waited for him to read the files himself. He gave her a suspicious look but then turned to the files in earnest. There was a lot there, as was Rhi’s habit. She was thorough, a little too thorough for Vincent Freeman’s liking, which had been communicated to her early on. It had been further suggested that Mr. Freeman, being the one who inevitably had to read through her work, considered this trait of hers unforgivable.

Still, he read through each file. He seemed to be looking for something specific; only he never found it. At last, though, he seemed to find something else, which he did not expect.

Here it is! Part 3 of my Harry Potter fanfiction novel. You can check out Part 1 and Part 2.

Enjoy!

Mrs. Corden had tried her best to keep busy over the last few days. The house was desperately quiet, so she had taken to leaving the telly on when she was cooking or cleaning, just for the noise. Teenage boys created a lot of noise, and now she felt so guilty for hating it so when it had been around.

She was just getting herself ready for bed. She was staying up far too late as it was, waiting, she realized, as if he was about to sneak in after curfew, when the knock came at the door. She shut off the TV and made her best attempt to make herself presentable. She had stopped weeping so much, days ago, but she swore her eyes were still puffy.

When she answered the door, she was not so surprised to see what looked to be a police officer standing there. They had frequented her house quite a lot over the past week. Still, this was an odd hour for one, especially considering the inquest had now been officially closed. Moreover, the woman seemed odd all by herself.

“Yes, officer?” Mrs. Corden said out of sheer reflex.

“Evening, madam,” the officer said and took off her hat. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

“It’s not a problem,” Mrs. Corden replied, and indeed it wasn’t. She welcomed the distraction, even if it reminded her too much of the past few days.

“I just have a few questions for you, madam,” the woman said calmly and pulled out a pad and pencil from her robes, which Mrs. Corden had just taken notice of. “Just some items to wrap up. Is that alright?”

“Go ahead,” Mrs. Corden sighed. She wrapped her arms around herself, self-consciously bracing for the recollection.

“Any strange behavior?” the woman went on. “Did he mention something strange happening to him in the previous few days? Any strange people?”

Mrs. Corden shook her head. The question didn’t confuse her by itself. It was something she had been asked before, by several officers. “Standard procedure”, they had told her. Truthfully, it was something she had asked herself. But still it came as a surprise as it felt very much as if the woman was referring to some, other, entirely different brand of “strange.”

“I see,” the officer replied and made another note in her pad. The pencil suddenly stopped scribbling. The woman seemed to be thinking about something. She padded one of her pockets and looked back up at Kyle’s mother. “Did your son like music, madam?”

“Music?” Mrs. Corden replied. This was altogether a different line of questioning. The other police had never asked her about that. “I suppose. He was always listening to those…” She waved her hand in the air, looking for the word. “Downloads, you know. On his mobile.”

“Do you know what kind?”

“Kind?” Mrs. Corden repeated.

“Was there a particular sort of music he’d been listening to recently?” the woman went on.

“I couldn’t tell you. Kyle never talked to me about them,” and she found herself choking a little on his name. “Goodness knows, I could never remember the names when he did.”

“I understand, madam,” the officer replied. For a moment, she seemed like she had something else to ask but instead flipped her pad shut. She looked at Mrs. Corden for the longest time. “Madam, I am very sorry for your loss,” she said finally, and there was a sincerity in her voice that both surprised and comforted Mrs. Corden. She had heard the phrase too often over the many days, from friends, neighbors, and police officers alike. Yet the words took on a new meaning now, as if the strangely dressed woman very much understood her loss and was indeed sorry for it.

“Well, I will leave you to your evening, madam,” the woman said.

Without another word, the officer set her hat back on her head, concealing again the pearl-white hair. She touched her helmet and turned and walked out into the dark street. Mrs. Corden watched her for some time, not noticing until she turned, the broom oddly strapped to the woman’s back.

She was ready to find the whole thing very strange, but, somehow, it just didn’t seem to matter.

***

The night enveloped Rhiannon Gillford as she flew over the city. London twinkled below, a bustle of muggles moving back and forth, utterly unaware of the woman on the broom passing over them. She often found night flying to be soothing, or she did whenever she got the chance to fly recreationally, which was far too infrequent these days. Right now she was on a mission but still managed to find a moment to take in the night air as it flew past her.

Flying helped her think. The world was smaller up here, among the clouds, father away and quiet. She was free to let her mind work over everything, collecting and ordering it. Her mind was working fast. There was a lot to consider.

She slowed the broom as she neared a particular rooftop of a particular building in a non-descript section of the city. She circled and hovered down towards it, swinging a leg over and stepping off just as she landed. She spun the broom and once again clipped it to her back.

The roof was bare but for a single door in a raggedy shed that presumably led to a stairwell. Officer Gillford approached the door and knocked three times. After a second, a previously unseen peephole, looking very much like a crystalline eye, appeared in the door. It seemed to consider her. Rhiannon responded by tapping the shield on her helmet.

“Rhiannon Gillford,” she said. “Patrolwitch, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

The crystal eye seemed to consider her again, with a kind of tired air. Finally there was a click and the door opened, revealing a spiral staircase with polished bronze runners that descended down into the building.

It’s a cliche among writers that the moment we actually have to write something, even when we have the space to write, we will find literally any other thing to do but write.

Clean the house. Do laundry. Reorganize sock drawers. Answer emails.

Literally anything.

And the thing I have found about cliches is that they are cliches for a reason. They are often true.

Time is always a big deal. For writers, for creatives, for most people I would imagine. Time management is something we’re all trying to get better at, and, simultaneously, something we’re all just a little frightened of. Which is probably why we’re trying to get better at it.

For me, I know, it’s always been a thorn in my side. The cliche creative procrastination has been a companion since before I ever knew I wanted to be a serious writer. Excuses can come easy, and energy can go just as easily. And, just like that, I can find whole weekends wasted in stuff I can’t even recall later because it was really that important.

It’s something I want to get better at, of course, but, in the end, I don’t think a guilt trip is going to make me better at this.

The thing is, I’m not bad at this. Not universally. When I want to, I can find all kinds of time. NaNoWriMo always stands as a reminder of exactly what I’m capable of. I sometimes think that’s half the reason I do it, so that I have something that tells me I am actually capable of the things I often don’t think I’m capable of. Every November, I find time to write, every day. I sneak it in. I steal minutes. I sit down, face my computer and hours can pass.

Nano reminds me that it’s not about making time or even finding it, it’s about using the time we have. A friend reminded me recently, as well, that we often have more time than we think we do.

So what is it then? Why is this so hard, when, at times, it seems so easy?

In the end, I think it’s not really about time. Like I said, we have more than we think we do, but even what we have is naturally limited. So, whatever we do with our time is less about the time itself and more about our motivation. Which is to say: Us.

Our choices shape how our time is spent. This is obvious but still something I need to write down. Because I often find myself letting time slip through my fingers with no regard, sometimes without even noticing until afterwards. It’s not that I don’t have time. It’s that when I do have time, I don’t have something else: the motivation to use it. It’s like the cliche. It’s not an issue of not having the time. It’s an issue of our priorities, for whatever reason, not lining up when that time is at hand.

So, that begs the question: what is it about having the time that seems to make our motivation scurry away to anything else?

Why do we feel the need to clean the entire house when we should be working?

Why does that one odd job that we’ve already been putting off seem like the thing we have to be doing RIGHT NOW?

Why does everything else not just look enticing but feel like an absolute imperative when we have something else that we’re supposed to be doing?

And, like so much in my life, the moment I ask the question, I already know the answer.

Fear.

Somewhere, deep down, we fear our creativity, in the same way that we fear anything that really matters in our life. Not because they’re bad, certainly, but because we know they matter. And things that matter have a way of hurting us. It’s vulnerability. Whenever we put something of ourselves into the world, we are exposing ourselves. We are creating places where we can be hurt.

And the fear that comes with our vulnerability works backwards. It knows that the best thing is to not even start. So when we sit down, when we make the determination to do the thing we know we need to do, that we want to do, the fear rises up and looks for any way out. It throws up the excuses. It makes us think anything is more important, but most of all that we can get away with putting off the thing we’re supposed to be doing.

And so it goes. On and on and on. Minutes and hours and days, and we look up and wonder where the time went.

So, what do we do?

And here, again, Nano reminds me.

The Holy Grail for me has always been how to take what I can do in Nano and apply it for the other 11 months of the year, make it happen every day or at least most of them. The thing is, I know November isn’t a magical month wherein I don’t have the same doubts and fears that I have the rest of the year. On the contrary, as I remind myself every year, the fear is still there. The same fear that tells me I can’t, that tries to distract me, is there. It is my constant companion, but I have learned how to set it aside and do it anyway.

So how do I do that every other day?

I know most of the reason I can find the motivation during Nano is the goal, is the fact that I have a goal. And I can set goals for the rest of the year, but I know it’s going to take more than that. It’s going to take me getting over another fear.

Scheduling.

Scheduling has always felt to me like something that is both A. unrealistic given the nature of my life, and B. like I’m daring the universe to do the exact opposite. I certainly like having a schedule, knowing what to expect and when to expect it. But it’s for precisely that reason that I’ve always been frustrated by it, because life has rarely afforded me predictability.

Still, I know people get away with it. More to the point, I know I have to try anyway. Because, like I have said so many times, the key is showing up. And to really show up, you have to say you’re going to show up. You have to write it down and make it a priority, and then deal with whatever difficulties arise to try and block you.

And that’s how you do it. You show up. Every day. Every chance you get. And, just like Nano, you will have the voice that says you can put it off, that tells you your socks need to be color-coordinated right now. And, just like Nano, you listen to that voice…

As promised, part 2 of my Harry Potter fan fiction novel. You can check out Part 1, here.

Enjoy.

Mr. Freebush enjoyed a good rugby match almost religiously, and it was known, throughout the neighborhood that he was not to be disturbed when a match was on, which, unfortunately, could be at any time, as Mr. Freebush had a habit of recording games and watching them at all hours and was possessed of a collection of the best matches, personally recorded, which he also watched whenever he pleased. Needless to say, it was not safe to bother Mr. Freebush at any time of day or night.

So, when a knock came at his door, right in the middle of the best part of the ’89 All Blacks test match with the French, it was with no small amount of annoyance that Mr. Freebush paused said match and stomped to answer said door.

“Whatdoyerwant?” Mr. Freebush grumbled before the door was fully opened, revealing an odd woman wearing a bobby’s helmet and robes. Catching sight of the helmet, he immediately swallowed his annoyance. “Er, sorry, officer,” he started again, then noticed the robes, which confused him.

“Evening, sir,” the woman replied taking off her helmet and tucking it under her arm. “Sorry to call on you at such a late hour,” she continued in a calm, even, practiced manner. “But I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“About the incident,” the robed officer said and pointed over her shoulder to the terrible corner.

“Oh,” said Mr. Freebush, like his neighbors, none too eager to be reminded of the incident. “Well, I already answered questions. There was an inquest, you know?”

And for a second this did not seem to land with the officer, but she replied a moment later, “Of course, sir. Just trying to wrap things up. If you don’t mind?”

“Oh, well,” Mr. Freebush grumbled, thinking of poor New Zealand currently frozen on the telly behind him. Still, he wasn’t the kind of man to refuse an officer of the law. “Get on with it then,” he sighed.

“Thank you,” the woman said and fished out a notebook and pencil from her robes, which Mr. Freebush noticed again, which confused him again. She tapped the pencil against her lips and seemed to whisper something to herself, then set it against the open notebook. “Did you witness the event, sir?”

The annoyance was coming back. Mr. Freebush was quite sure he had answered all these questions before, during the initial inquest. In fact, he was sure he had answered them several times.

“No,” he said gruffly. “I was inside watching New Zealand and South Africa in the ’95 cup. I did hear the commotion, of course, but by the time I came outside, I could barely see anything for all the people gathered around.” Mr. Freebush suddenly felt a twinge of guilt at his attitude and added, “ Tragic, really. Just tragic.”

“Did you know the boy?”

“Since he was a boy,” Mr. Freebush replied reflectively. “His mother lives two houses down. I think I may have watched him for her once, years ago, of course. Yes, we watched the Wallabies vs. the All Blacks in 2000. Good boy, though got a bit flaky as he got older. Teenagers, girls, you know.”

The woman gave an absent kind of nod to indicate she was listening as she continued to write. Mr. Freebush was a simple man, not the sort to go poking into people’s business. Leave him to his rugby, and he was content to leave the world to its non-rugby-related interests. Still, some things piqued his concern.

He was quite certain, for instance, that the woman who had come to his door, strange as she was dressed, was an officer of the law simply doing her job, so he was content to do his civic duty and answer her questions. Nonetheless, when, as she was taking copious notes on her pad, she reached into a pocket of her robe and fished out a small pocket watch, he was a little shocked to see the pencil continue writing.

He tried to convince himself it hadn’t been, even when, a second later, seeming to notice this herself, the woman had hurriedly grabbed the pencil out of the air. This small event, though, caused Mr. Freebush to give the woman a more serious look than he had before. He took in the robes and helmet but settled lastly on the thing that he only just realized had been really out-of-place this whole time.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, causing the woman to look up from her pad. “Is that a broom?”

And, just as before, this didn’t seem to land with her how he expected it to. She peeked over her shoulder, as if just remembering, and took a few seconds to reply.

“Keeping the streets clean, as it were?” Mr. Freebush replied with a chuckle and a grin. It took her a moment but the woman laughed as well.

“Have you noticed anything strange recently?” she suddenly continued.

“Um, strange?”

“Out of the ordinary. Specifically around that area.” And she pointed back again to the corner.

“Other than a boy getting run down by a lorry?” Mr. Freebush asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied with a casualness that worried him.

“I can’t really say.”

“Anything strange or unexplained in the neighborhood?” she went on, and for a second he thought about mentioning the pencil, which was by far the strangest thing he’d seen lately, but he was still trying to convince himself he hadn’t seen it.

“No, I don’t believe so,” he said.

“I see,” she replied and made another note on the pad. “Well, thank you for your time, sir,” she added, flipping the notebook closed.

“Oh,” he replied, taken aback by the abruptness. He had expected more, somehow. “Well, carry on, then.”

“Thank you, sir,” the woman said. “I will.”

She stepped back and replaced her helmet, tipping it to him as she turned away from the door. Mr. Freebush was still a little confused by the whole experience but happy for the opportunity to return to the All Blacks and French. However, just as he was closing the door, he heard the officer speak up.

“One more thing, sir?” And he swung the door tentatively back open. “You said the boy’s mother lived two houses down?” the woman asked.

It’s funny how you can go one week without blogging and it feels like you haven’t done it in weeks. Although, if I think about it, I haven’t done it since last year. (Cue awkward canned laughter.)

But, in the spirit of the season, it didn’t really feel like I could go without a year-in-review.

2017 was a year. A year of years for reasons I am having a hard time counting. I thought 2016 was a year full of history, but last year felt like it was full of everything. Highs and lows and things we will be talking about for generations to come.

Personally, it was a very big year for me. So much so that this time last year feels like way more than a year ago. I was in a different place, of course. In a different job but also with what feels like a completely different mindset.

It’s funny that I’m only just realizing how I finally got what I wanted to get out of moving. I left Austin because I had never lived in another place as an adult, and I wanted all the growth and life that happens when you uproot yourself. I thought Atlanta would be that, and it was, in a way, but not in any way I was prepared for. Neither was West Point, now that I think about it. Looking back, they both feel like way stations, like places I was never meant to stay for long, whether I realized it at the time or not.

And now I’m here. And I finally feel like this is what I wanted all along. It’s not been easy, of course, and I’m not really done with the struggle or the growth, I know. But I can’t help but feel that it feels right. This place feels like how I thought moving to a new place would feel. And maybe I just didn’t move to the right place, or maybe it just took every place before this one for me to figure it out.

Like I said, I can’t really enumerate all that happened. I could sit here and list it all out, but it would be inadequate. #CreateLounge and #NaNoWriMo and #YourOwnWay and with all of it the realization that my life, without a lot of planning, has become very hashtaggable. Curious.

But as much as I could talk about the events, in my life and others, I know that the greatest change is what’s happened in me. And even as I realize that I know it’s not done yet. I’ve commented before on how I seem to be becoming someone that would have shocked myself only a few years ago. Even now, I’m becoming more and more that person, and that’s exciting and strange. It’s something I even hesitate to say because I’m not sure I could describe it fully. I’m not sure I yet have the vocabulary to describe it. I’m working on it. I think, strike that, I know it’s going to have a lot to do with my new Core Desired Feelings. Do I hear another blog series coming on? Why, yes, I think I do.

In the end, 2017 was a Year. Hard to say, yet, if it was good or bad. There were certainly some bad parts, but already it feels like all of that is propelling us into something very good. An awakeness to the world around us that can’t help but change it. But it was a year, that is for certain.

And now we are in the beginnings of 2018, and it opens with all the possibility we’ve come to be suspicious about. It’s hard not to be cynical after this year, but I’m finding myself being surprisingly optimistic. 2018 is our year. Like every other year. It holds promise, but it depends on us to do something about it. To plan where we can, to take things as they come where we can’t, but ultimately to decide, here and now, who we are going to be whatever the year may bring.

It's that time of year. Wherever you are, whoever you're with, whatever you find yourself doing, I hope you find yourself exactly where and who you want to be. But even if you don't, if things are not as they should be, know that you are not alone. This is a heavy season. Profound and still and sad, and there's noting wrong with admitting that.

If you do find that the day or the season is not as bright as you'd wish, take this, my gift to you. A little recording I did last year of a holiday classic. It's simple and childlike, but all the best things are. And, maybe, it can serve as a reminder to all of us, both of the simplest joys we so often pine for, and that sometimes the thing we've been listening for is still there, waiting for us, if we can just believe.

I'm in the middle of finished the novel I started in NaNoWriMo this year. Already it's the longest single thing I've ever written, and I'm not done yet. While I'm committed to finishing it, nevertheless, I felt the urge on Friday to write something completely unrelated. Another story that I had in the back of my mind. I finally relented and dropped about a thousand words that made me feel so good I decided to post it to Instagram. Writing is like that sometimes. Creativity too. Occasionally, it's good to do something completely different, if only to remind yourself there are other stories.

It wasn't until I posted in on Instagram, though, that I was reminded of something just as important. I wrote a few months ago, when I posted the first excerpt of "Fatales", that I realized I had been hiding my fiction and made the determination to be more open with that, very important, aspect of my writing. Well, I realized I had been hiding something else.

If you've been following along for a while, you might know I did something a couple of years ago that I never thought I'd do: I wrote an entire fanfiction novel. And I realized this weekend that, other than a few select people, I had never shown it to anyone. I couldn't tell you why except that I had a kind of embarrassment towards it. Well, I think it's time I did something about that.

So, here you are. The first bit, at least. Hopefully, I'll post more soon. I thought about writing a synopsis, but something told me to just let it stand as it is. I will leave you with three words, though: Harry Potter Fanfiction.

Enjoy.

A warm breeze blew past Richard’s face. It was unseasonably dry for London this time of year, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him from his daily run. He pounded a little harder in his trainers, thinking, like many do, that if he ran a little faster then the breeze might feel a little cooler.

He had passed a few others on the path out here, but all of them had been heading the other way, so he was pleased to find himself alone as the trail curved around the pond. It was a pleasant enough afternoon, despite the heat, and the rhythm of his steps, timed with the music in his headphones, kept him wrapped in his own little world as he ran on.

Thus it was no small shock when he caught a figure out of the corner of his eye. He had been so lost in his thoughts and the rhythm of the run that he wondered how long she had been standing there on the other side of the lake. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember there being a path on that side; there were only trees down to the water. She definitely wasn’t running either, just standing there. Something about her made Richard slow to a stop.

She looked familiar. Strange and familiar. There was a bluish haze around her that he thought might be a reflection of the sun off the water, and she was dressed in a way that Richard couldn’t quite make out for the haze but certainly appeared to be inappropriate for an afternoon hike. Still she looked familiar. In fact, she looked just like…

“Carol?” Richard muttered under his breath.

What was Carol doing out here? He left her back at home. Carol didn’t run. She was always giving him grief about it. How did she get out here so fast, he wondered?

Yet, for all the questions the situation brought up, there Carol was. And she seemed to be saying something. Something Richard could understand despite the fact that she was all the way across the lake and he was wearing headphones.

And suddenly, Carol, the headphones, none of it didn’t make sense. It all seemed so terribly reasonable. She was calling to him, and he wanted to go to her. Straight to her. It made sense to go to her. It made all the sense in the world.

So he went.

Coincidentally, he had only just been thinking how thirsty he was.

* * *

Marcus was late at the office, again. This was becoming more than a habit, certainly more than a job; this was becoming a prison sentence. But reports rarely wrote themselves. And how else would the company know how much work their employees were doing without reports telling them how much work their employees were doing?

It was quiet, despite the rain falling outside, which always unnerved Marcus. When everyone was here, it was harder to get things done, but he’d take the background drone over the deathly silence any day. Or night, as it were.

The music helped. At least, with the office empty, he could play it loud on his speakers, without complaint.

Unfortunately, the report didn’t seem to be going anywhere. It may have been the late hour, his exhaustion after spending a full day at the office, or perhaps he was trying to make sense out of completely random data, but the numbers refused to form themselves into anything coherent. So he paced to try and collect his thoughts.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been pacing before he noticed her. Even when he did, he was sure for a second it was a trick of the light, a reflection of the too bright fluorescents on the window, a side effect of his tired eyes and fatigued brain. Yet the longer he looked the more he was sure there was a woman standing on the other side of the window.

In fact, it seemed to be Melody, which made no sense, of course. Melody was visiting her mother in Sussex, and, even if she hadn’t been, would surely have been asleep right now and not standing on the other side of his office window, dressed in he-couldn’t-tell-what.

And yet there Melody was. And she seemed to be talking to him. And suddenly it made perfect sense. Just like how the numbers suddenly resolve themselves. It made perfect sense for him to hear her perfectly, despite the music and the glass between them, and for her to be standing there on the other side of the window, despite it being 20 stories up. Even the strange haze that surrounded her seemed to make sense, or at least passed his notice, like everything else about her.

The only thing, in fact, that didn’t make sense was the glass. He suddenly felt the need to open the window, regardless of the rain. She was telling him to. He wanted to. He did.

And, then, it made perfect sense to step out and join her.

* * *

A lorry roared past Kyle as he walked home. They had been cutting through the neighborhood lately, taking a shortcut that allowed them to avoid the mid-afternoon traffic. The Council, of course, was beside itself, raising issues of noise and safety to anyone who would listen, which weren’t many, unfortunately. So, the lorries continued to cut through, saving a full fifteen minutes. Council be damned.

Kyle couldn’t have cared less, and only noticed the lorry when it passed his line of sight. The noise easily covered by the song blaring in the headphones that covered his ears. He barely recalled his mum saying something about the trucks and how it worried her when he walked home from school, even more so when he was listening to music too loud to hear them. Not that he cared, again. He was 15, after all. Too old, in his opinion, to be lectured about “looking both ways before crossing the road”.

Still, out of habit, he managed to look up from his mobile as he hit the corner of the street, which lay just opposite his house. That’s when he saw her.

He recognized the figure instantly as Patima, standing on the other side of the street, which made no sense. She didn’t live out this way, and, more to the point, she had never given him the time of day. And she wasn’t dressed like she had been today either, and he remembered. Also, there was that odd haze about her that he didn’t notice because he was too confused by her being there at all. Yet there she was, and she seemed to be smiling at him.

And suddenly it made sense. Or it stopped not making sense. Or rather still, nothing that didn’t make sense about it seemed to matter. There was Patima, and she was smiling at him, and talking to him. Two things she had absolutely never done before.

She seemed to be inviting him over to her. He could hear despite the headphones, and he wanted to go to her. He needed to go. So he did.

Later, during the inquest, when a loud, angry Council demanded justice, and Kyle’s weeping mother was interviewed for the news, it was said that Kyle had simply not seen the truck.

The truth was that he had. The truck had simply ceased to matter.

* * *

The street was empty and quiet now. The lorries no longer cut through, much to everyone’s relief.

It was evening. On the very corner responsible for the newfound, if bittersweet, peace and quiet, a small memorial had been erected. Schoolmates, neighbors, and friends had left flowers, notes, representations of their grief. Among them were Kyle’s headphones, scratched but otherwise intact. A last vestige of the boy who had worn them only days before.

Life had returned to normal, more or less, as it tends to do, even after tragedy. Parents held their own children a little tighter, but everyone thought it best to keep to themselves, much as they had before, on the now quiet street in the once again quiet village.

Thus, had anyone been out looking at this hour, they would have been more than shocked to see a woman emerge from the darkness, just down the street from the little shrine to Kyle.

There would have been any number of reasons for their perplexity. The woman’s dress, dark blue robes, or her hat, which resembled a bobby’s helmet, or the general manner with which she conducted herself. But what would surely have shocked them most, and first, was the broom, which by itself would have appeared an oddity, being archaic looking, made of wood and bound twigs. However, the real shock would not have been that she was carrying it but that it seemed to be carrying her.

The strange woman floated down out of the darkness, riding, as it were, on the broom. When she was only a few feet above the ground, she dismounted and pulled the broom into a vertical position as she descended, with one foot still perched on the side and the other held out to step off deftly as she alighted in the street.

She glanced up and then down the village road and, convinced that no one was watching, spun the broom by its handle, under an arm, and clipped it, bristles up, to a harness on her back. She then set off walking towards the corner and the little shrine there.

She surveyed the scene with all the care of a police inspector, which made a certain sense and yet didn’t. It made sense in that she did indeed conduct herself like an inspector, with the kind of reserved, yet forceful presence of a “bobby on the beat”. Yet it did not make sense, because, while she had the helmet, she was not dressed like a bobby on the beat, what with the robes and, again, the broom. Still anyone watching might have thought that she was looking for something, for indeed she was.

The woman knelt down over the little memorial and, with a gloved hand, poked around the notes and flowers. She took off her custodian’s helmet, its little shield emblazoned with the letters “D-M-L-E” shined to radiance, revealing pearl white hair underneath, cut to just below her ears, and fished an item out of the hat.

Her hand emerged clutching a milky-white crystal about the length of her palm, bound with a dark, leather cord. She held her hand above the memorial and let the crystal drop and dangle from her fingers by the cord. The crystal hovered horizontally as she passed it over the shrine.

At first, it made no movement other than to turn slightly in the night breeze. Then, as she passed it over again, the crystal began to spin, ever so slightly. She passed it slower, and it spun faster, back and forth under no power, it seemed, but its own. It began to glow. A light blue bending towards green.

She stopped her hand when the crystal seemed to be glowing brightest and spinning fastest, right over the headphones. She lowered the crystal and the color began to flash. Satisfied, she tugged on the cord, sending the crystal back up into her hand. She dropped it back into her helmet, which she set back on her pearl white head, and grabbed the headphones right off the top of the memorial. She deposited them in a pocket of her robes as she stood.

Sometimes I think what we need more peep talks for the middle days than for the really bad ones.

Sure, we could all use a pick-me-up when times are at their worst. Someone to come along and remind us we can get up, in that very moment when we think we can’t.

But life has taught me a lot, and one of the things I’m always learning is that most days are not extravagantly good or bad. There are high and lows, certainly, but the majority is in the middle. Days that aren’t super one way or the other.

Sometimes they’re okay days. So okay you don’t really notice. But sometimes they aren’t. They aren’t the worst days, but something about them just feels off. You feel off.

Like when you’re driving in your car, and it just lists a little to one side when you let go of the wheel. It’s not the end-of-the-world, but it’s just enough to make you worry.

The bad days can make you doubt yourself, but, in a way, they are easier to resist. They are more obvious.

The null days, though, they can make you question yourself, your every choice, because some part of you can’t help but wonder why you can’t feel better all the time. Why it’s so easy to let one thing slip you up. Why you can’t stop listening to that little voice that says, over and over, “Are you sure?”

And there are many great quotes and speeches and pep talks for surviving the bad times. But, somehow, you never seem worthy of them in the in-between. Like you can’t help but remind yourself that life isn’t that bad and maybe you should just get over it. Which, naturally, just makes you feel worse.

So, here’s a pep talk for the null days. Maybe you need it, maybe you will, but whatever kind of day you had, however this finds you, I hope you know you’re not alone. We all have those days.

Just keep showing up.

That’s the biggest lesson life is teaching me right now.

Just keep showing up.

And that’s easy to remember when it’s good and when it’s bad. It’s harder when it’s neither, when you wake up and don’t feel one way or another. It’s hard to get started, but it’s harder to keep going. The hills may tax us, but it’s the long stretches of open road that drain us the most. Where we can’t see the destination and landmarks are few. It’s those days that we wonder if we’re headed in the right direction. If we’re making progress at all.

Just keep showing up.

You have to. Because it’s the only way to get through.

It’s a slog somedays, yes. It’s a trudge, with your head down, doing the same thing over and over again. Wondering all the while if you’re doing anything. You are.

Just keep showing up.

Whether you can see it or not. Whether you believe it or not. It’s easy to think the good we’re trying to do doesn’t add up. It does. I know it’s not easy to see. You may never know the full extent but nothing is for nothing. You being here, right now, matters.

On the good days and the bad and the days in between.

You have to show up for all of them. You have to make the call and reach out and do the thing you want to do. And maybe you’ll get a response, or maybe you’ll get silence. Show up anyway.

And keep showing up.

And whatever kind of day you have, whether the world seems good, bad, or indifferent.

That’s a simple truth about life, but, like all simple truths, it’s something that’s hard to come to terms with.Everything is a process. Writing and working and living and relationships. Everything is a process. And that means two things specifically:

Things take time. If you want to accomplish anything, anything of value at least, then there’s a number of steps involved. There might even be prep work.

Things are never quite done.

I go through stages with this. There are days I understand and accept it, and there are days when I wish it worked differently. Despite everything I’ve done and everything I’ve learned, I still catch myself some days thinking if I could only get “Fill-in-the-Blank” then I’d be set. And, no, that’s not always a money thing.

There are days I fantasize about the day I no longer have to try. When I will have achieved whatever I was waiting for and then life becomes maybe not easy but manageable.

Of course, I know that’s nonsense.

NaNoWriMo wrapped up this week, and I finished with the highest word count I’ve ever hard. 81000 words in a single month. And as much as I am very proud of that fact, I know I’m not done.

The story isn’t complete. Even now, I know I’m probably looking at a 100,000 word first draft. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited. The story is good. It wants to be told, and I am eager to get it all down.

But it’s hard, after dropping 81K, to not think, “Really? More?” To cross one finish line and realize it’s just another mile marker and wonder, just for a second, whether you have it in you to finish.

Writing has often taught me this lesson. That you’re never quite done. Finish a chapter? Good, write another. Finish a first draft? Good, now go back and rewrite it. Finish a book? Good, get cracking on the next one.

It doesn’t help, either, that a lot of the stories I write tend to have ready-made sequels that I’m already writing in my head. But that’s just the process. And everything is a process. Everything has steps to it, and once you hit one milestone, there’s usually another a little further on. You rarely get to “Done”, and even when you do, there’s the next thing waiting for you.

I’m not going to lie. It can be damn infuriating. And, like I said, there are days I understand that, and there are days I really wish I didn’t have to.

Because, yes, it applies to so much more than writing. Everything in life is a process. But we forget that. It’s why people work hard to get a job or a degree, and then are disappointed when life doesn’t open up for them. That’s why people put forth effort in relationships, until they get married and think all that’s behind them.

I think at least part of the problem is that we measure progress by successes. When you get to the mountaintop, then you can look back and recognize your efforts. But not during the process, because what if you fail? Won’t all that have been wasted?

That, to me, is one of the hardest things. As someone who has devoted considerable effort in the pursuit of some important things that didn’t pan out, I often wonder if I was better off not trying. I’m learning, though, that that’s not the case.

Everything is a process, which means it doesn’t necessarily make a difference if we reach the finish line or not. Oftentimes there isn’t a finish line, and, just as often, we reach a goal we didn’t expect, one we didn’t shoot for from the beginning.

There’s value in the process. And, yes, there are days I don’t believe that.

I’m learning that there are days where I’m going to wake up and be very confident with where I am. I’ll show gratitude for my situation. I’ll recognize the progress I’ve made. Most importantly, I’ll be okay with the fact that I don’t know, that I can’t see if I’m making any progress forward.

And there are days where I’m going to be kicking and screaming with God all day.

I’m learning that’s a part of the process. Another step.

Everything is a process, which means everything, at some point, will take effort and intention. It might not always take as much, and thankfully there are days when the pressure is off. But it will always take something. If we want to grow, that means getting higher than ourselves as we are now. And you can’t coast uphill.

It’s always going to take something. Because there’s always a process.

Forgive me if this feels rushed. It’s one of those spent-a-four-day-weekend-taking-it-easy-then-realized-on-Sunday-night-that-I-haven’t-blogged situations.

NaNo, of course, is going well. Almost surprisingly so. After hitting 50k over a week ago, I’m still going. Which is good because this story has been dropping major hints that it is not going to be done just yet. I’m actually starting to wonder if a 100,000 word first draft is in my future. I’ll keep you posted.

Nano always manages to surprise me. I’ve done it for 7 years, and still I’m never quite prepared for it. But, oh, is it always worth the ride. I’m learning that I’m never done learning with this process. It’s something that you master, bit-by-bit, but you never fully master it.

The first lesson, though, that Nano taught me was how to fail.

This is my 7th year doing NaNoWriMo and my 6th completing the challenge. I failed my first year. I started with good intentions, but I fell behind pretty soon, missed my quotas, skipped days. Until eventually I realized the amount of writing I’d have to do to catch and by the end of my second week I gave up.

And that felt like failure at the time, but I’ve come to realize it was just delayed success. I really mean that. Because I learned a whole lot, and I know that the lessons I learned in my first year are the reason I was able to come back and win the next. And then next and the next and so on.

I learned all the ways I can make excuses. All the different strategies I can employ to convince myself that “later” is my best option. All the math I will do to try and figure out how much I can write tomorrow to make up for not writing today.

And, in turn, I learned how to not let myself give into any of them, to not take a single excuse, and, to instead, sit down and write the words.

I learned that minimum effort won’t do it. Not for me. I have to show up those first couple of weeks and drop more words, get ahead of the curve so that when the end of the month rolls around and I’m flagging I don’t have to feel guilty because I’m already ahead of the game.

In short, I learned how to show up. I learned what that means. What I have to do in order to do that. I learned that showing up is all that matters.

And I learned that failure is never really failure if you learn from it.

The thing I never tell people about Nano is that I almost wish they would fail their first year. Because it makes it so much easier to succeed your second. You will learn far more from your failure than your success that first time out.

So, to everyone out there who tried and couldn’t this year, whether it’s Nano or something else, it’s okay. It’s okay if you petered out. It’s okay if you made excuses and put things off. You’re okay. Learn from it. Learn how easy it is to take the easy way out and learn how to close the door. Learn what your excuses sound like so you can recognize them next time.

Most importantly, come back. Show up next time, next month, next year, and try again.

Well, I did it. I’ve reached 50,000 words and completed the NaNoWriMo challenge for 2017.

I’ve never completed a NaNo this fast. I’ve managed to work out a good system so that I usually finish a little early, but I’ve never been done this early. It’s a weird feeling. I know I did it, but I keep looking back on my novel thus far to check and make sure I actually did it, that I haven’t imagined the whole thing.

I say “thus far” for two reasons. One because, as has become the habit of mine, this story has shown that it is far longer than 50,000 words. And two because, although I have finished the challenge, I have no intention of stopping.

This is another surprising thing as, in previous NaNo’s, whenever I got to my word count goal, my drive drained almost immediately. I pushed hard for 50k, and, the moment I finished, my brain decided it was vacation time. I’ve always been a little ashamed of that and wondered how far I could get if I just kept up that pace.

This year, I think I’m going to find out. I’m actually starting to think that’s why I’ve been going so fast. It’s like my creativity knew, before I even began. “This is a 75000 word novel,” it’s saying. “And you are going to finish the whole damn thing.”

I’m excited. At the same time, I am starting to feel it.

I’ve written before that every NaNo ends up being a challenge for reasons outside of the novel itself. Every November, I’ve always managed to find myself in some deep, personal crisis. Depression, anxiety, despair, moving, moving again. My life always seems to unravel, just a little, come November 1st.

I knew this year wasn’t going to be different. I find myself, yet again, in a new city, working two jobs. The challenge to find the time, or make the time, to write, to stick with it and not lose myself to stress and deadlines, loomed even before I started. And yet, not entirely unexpectedly, the real challenge was beyond even that.

This year has been unprecedented in the opportunity I’ve had to encourage other people starting out in the process. I’ve been able to give some great advice that I’ve gained through my own NaNo experiences. And, as usual, I’m being challenge by my own words.

They say if you want to really understand something, try to teach it to someone else. I know that’s true from experience. I’m also learning that if you want to really learn a lesson, give someone a piece of advice. I guarantee, it won’t be long before you are challenged to apply those words to your own life.

NaNo is about showing up. I keep telling people there is no magic, just that. Show up. When you don’t feel like it. When you don’t know how. Show up anyway. Show fear and doubt the door, and then do it anyway.

The crisis for me this year has been: can I take my own advice?

Things have been going well, which, for me, means it was only a matter of time before I started to wonder: what if it’s all wrong?

My anxiety really showed up in earnest this week. I had such a great week before with NaNo, I shouldn’t have been surprised. When you make progress in one area, you’d think it’d help you realize the other areas will work themselves out. Instead, it tends to make you wonder if the only thing you’ll ever make progress in is something unimportant. You start to doubt progress itself. Because you can see the words add up, but you can’t see anything else in your life. Nothing else comes with a counter and a bar graph that make it easy to see that you are, in fact, doing something, that it’s all adding up.

I tell people to show up, but this week I really wondered if that was going to make a difference.

I’ve always had a very tenuous relationship with my own desires. It’s felt, for many, many years, like naming them, having them at all, was a good sign that I’d never get them. Because I never seem to get exactly what I want. And that makes you wonder if there’s something wrong with you, like you don’t know how to “want” right. Because if you did, then why does your wanting something never seem to make a difference?

That, of course, is a deep ocean of things I have to work through. In the end, I don’t know. I’ve never had a really good answer to that question. But that’s kind of the point.

NaNo is always surprising. Either in the story or what happens while you’re trying to write it. Half the reason to show up is just that. To see how it’ll all work. Because you won’t know until you show up; because nothing can happen until you show up. So you have to show up. Even if you don’t feel like it. Even if you can’t see that any progress is being made.

And the hardest lesson is that you will still feel that way. I used to think I wouldn’t be a “real” writer, that I wouldn’t have become the kind of person I wanted to be until I didn’t doubt all the time. There are days I don’t. When I have that crystal clear confidence that tells me it doesn’t matter if I can’t see how, it’ll still work out, and be all the more exciting because I couldn’t see it.

And there are days I doubt that conviction completely. There are days I doubt all my efforts, when I know, KNOW, that I’m messing it all up. That I’ve missed my chance, and I’m kidding myself by thinking I’m making the right choice by sticking with it.

I had a lot of those days this week. I don’t think I’m quite out of them yet, either.

And I wish I could tell you that all it takes is telling yourself you can. I wish the answer was as simple as deciding: I am going to believe better. It’s a start, but it’s not the end.

I want to believe that my bad days are just bad days. That they are just anxiety lying to me, and my good days are when I see the truth. I do, but there are days I doubt that.

But I’m still showing up. Because I can’t always believe in myself, but I can believe in a story. And the one lesson every NaNo has taught me is that the story is worth finishing.

So what if it’s a bad idea? Who ever said it had to be a good one?

Finish it. You won’t know until you see it to the end. And for that you have to show up.

I’ve done Nano for 7 years now, and this year… This year is shaping up to be the best yet. And that’s weird to say because we’re barely a third of the way through it.

I don’t know if it’s the story itself, the fact that in one week I broke my all time, per day writing record, Twice!, or maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time, I’m not doing it alone.

Nanowrimo has a community behind it. It’s almost a secret club. (I say “almost”, but, yeah, it probably is an actual secret club.) But it’s one I have never really experienced fully. Oh, I talk about it. A lot. My friends know me as the Nano-Evangelist. I don’t shut up about it. But even so, every year that I’ve done it, I’ve kind of done it alone.

But not this year. This year I managed to convert a few people, and, while I can’t credit for the actual conversion, they each have come with their own ideas, it’s still been really great to be joined by a little band in the trenches with me.

The funny thing that I realized this week, though, is that all of them are doing their first year of Nano. I, of course, am on my 7th. So it’s been interesting, (read: semi-hilarious), to see them take a first swing at this beast. Because it’s all so familiar.

I failed my first year of Nano, missed a few days, fell behind, and petered out about halfway through. But, while I didn’t complete, I still count it as a good year because it taught me almost everything I needed to know to come back the next year and blow the challenge out of the water. And to come back every year since.

The thing I never tell people about Nano is that I almost wish people would fail their first year. Because in failing you will learn more about the actual process than succeeding. You will learn all the ways your brain can make excuses to not do it. You will learn to make peace with the voice that shows up, every day, to tell you to not do it. And once you learn that, once you understand that the voice is not telling you the truth, then you can do Nano. Then you can do anything.

One of my Nano-buddies messaged me over the weekend, in despair, because she just couldn’t find the energy to do it. I wanted to laugh. Not because I didn’t believe her or because she was being silly, far from it. It was because she said all the things I said my first year. All the things I still myself saying from time-to-time.

I can’t do this.

The words aren’t there.

I am failing so hard.

And the reason I am so thankful to not be the only one doing it this year is that I finally get to give people what I never got my first year. I finally get to use all this Nano-wisdom for its primary purpose.

So I told her all the things that I’ve learned to tell myself over the years. The Nano Pep Talks that I haven’t been able to give anyone else yet.

Just start. It’s the simplest, easiest, toughest rule.Just start. You won’t feel prepared. You just won’t.You will always have that voice that says you can’t,and the art is in learning to ignore it and write anyways.

The story wants to get told.I learn this every time I sit down to write.The story wants to get told, and if you show up, it will too.But it won’t write itself; you have to start.

It’s supposed to be hard.If it were easy, it wouldn’t be worth doing.It’s supposed to challenge us because it’s growth,and, God help us, it’s never not without pain.

Writer’s freak outs are so common, you can almost map them, like the 5 stages of grief. And it wasn’t long before my friend reached that oh, so common stage: This is Crap.

She said to me, “What if it’s just a bad idea?”

What if my story just sucks? What if it doesn’t deserve to get written?

I wanted to laugh again, because I’ve thought that, so many times. Writers have thought that, likely since the invention of the written word. That’s why I wasn’t worried when she said it, and why I didn’t hesitate to write back:

Who ever said it had to be a good one?

It’s easy to look at Nano and see the potential. A story you can hold in your hand, one maybe even that you can publish, or at the very least be proud of. Thus, the biggest fear becomes, “What if I’m wasting my time?” What if this is just a terrible story and I spent 30 days writing 50,000 words that were better off not being written?

But Nano is about so much more than that because it’s not really about the story. I’ve written 5 novels in Nano. I haven’t published any of them, yet. I hope to, but I don’t look at myself as unfulfilled. Because I still did it. I completed the challenge; regardless of what happens with the stories after that, I will have still accomplished something.

It’s like I told my friend: It’s the pursuit that matters. Maybe we write good stories. Maybe we write the best story in the world. Maybe we don’t. Maybe it’s crap. Point of order, it probably isn’t, but it doesn’t really matter.

Because it’s not about the stories we are writing. It’s about who we are becoming while writing them.

The kind of people who know how to not make excuses. Who know how to call upon our talents when we need to, not just when we feel like it. The kind of people who will show up.

You’d think after writing nearly 14000 words over the last 5 days that I would somehow be out. Like my word tank would have run dry. It would even be understandable if I didn’t bother blogging because, hey, I’m already writing like a maniac over here.

But the thing I’ve learned, over and over and over and over again, through NaNoWriMo is that you are never out. You can write 3000 words one day, then come back to the page the next and drop 2500 just like that. Because you are never out of words.

You only think you are.

I was telling a friend last week that the thing about NaNo, the real, ironic, so-obvious-it-feels-like-it-can’t-be-right thing about NaNo is that it’s not really a matter of writing. It is, of course, but the challenge isn’t the words. It’s the mental factor.

Every difficulty, every roadblock that might fall in your way, everything that will try and prevent you from completing the challenge is a mental issue. Make the determination to finish, challenge yourself to reach a goal, and all your demons come out to play merry hell with you.

Because it’s not about the words. The English language is growing but it still has a set number of words and look at all the infinite combinations we make out of them. Words are finite, yet we never run out.

We think it’s going to be about the words. We think we’ll run out of ideas. We’re sure that once we pass the 10 or 20 thousand word mark we’ll suddenly run dry, unable to find the thing to say next. And yet we never do.

Because it’s not about the words. It’s about you.

Challenges bring out the worst in people because there is a part of you, for whatever reason, devoted to not changing. And when you challenge yourself, it, naturally, takes that personally. And reacts.

You’ll never feel less capable than the moment you need to be capable. You’ll never think so much about running out of ideas as the moment when having them really matters. Difficulty arises because we challenge the status quo.

Writing, any creative act for that matter, is inherently about taking up space in the world, about changing it in some way, even if it’s only to say, “This did not exist before. Now it does.” And there are things in the world, and in us, that don’t want that. Some of them are just bad habits, some of them are downright evil. And if you go with the flow, they will not bother you, but the moment you try to rise out of the rut, start climbing out of the box, they will try to push you back in.

The voice in your head that says, “I can’t do this. I’m a terrible writer. When did I ever think I could pull this off? What was that? Normal writers don’t write like that. I can’t go on until I fix it. The words aren’t coming fast enough. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.”

There are times when my brain becomes very inventive in ways to convince me not to even start. Most of the time, in fact, I don’t feel like I can. I don’t feel ready, prepared, in the zone, enough. I know that if I start the words won’t come and I’ll just be staring at a blank page wasting my time.

And most of the time, when I’ve gone and done it anyway, I have proven myself wrong. Because I’ve learned, countless times, that the reason my fear tells me I can’t is because deep down it knows I can. It tells me I can’t start because it knows that starting is all I really need to do. Because once I do, things figure themselves out.

That’s why I told my friends, who are doing their first NaNo’s this year, that the secret is simply this: Listen to the fear, then do it anyway.

That’s it. You can talk words, you can talk technique, but, at the end of the day, (and at the beginning for that matter), the thing that’s going to get you through is the simple determination to do it anyway.

When you think you’re not ready. When you think it won’t work. When you think you’ve run out of ideas. When you think you don’t have the time or talent or energy. When you think you are simply not allowed to.

Do it anyway.

Get up, listen to the fear, do it anyway, write the words, then come back tomorrow and do it all over again.

Unless you’re just tuning in, you probably know that every year I compete in National Novel Writing Month, where I take up the challenge to write 50,000 words of a novel inside the month of November. “Compete”, of course, is a strong word. Although many people do it, the only person I’m really competing with is myself, and, should I succeed, the only prize I’ll win is the novel I will have written.

Nevertheless, I do this every year, and, with any luck, this will be my sixth year completing the challenge, in a row.

That being said, I still approach this with a sense of dread. I look forward to NaNoWriMo, certainly, but like any big event, especially the good ones, you can’t help but think “Oh, boy”, at some point.

For me, that point usually comes November 1st.

I’ve written about Nano before. In fact, I had a wholeseriesabout it lastyear. And whenever I talk about Nano I also mention what happens every November 1st. I sit down at my computer, open up that document file, look at that blank page, and think to myself: “I can’t do this.”

That might surprise you coming from someone who has this 5 times, but it doesn’t surprise me. Not anymore.

I’ve done this for 5 years in a row, written a whole novel inside of 30 days. Not only that, but I’ve written a different novel. Not just a new story but a completely new genre. My first year was post-apocalyptic scifi, my second was contemporary romance, my third was kung fu fantasy, my fourth was historical fiction (Psst! Yes, Fatales), and last year my novel was a more realistic science fiction. I didn’t really plan it that way; it’s just that every year I’ve managed to pick a novel in a different genre. And this year’s no exception. I’m making my first foray into young adult dystopian literature.

As a result of this variety, my prep work each year has been vastly different. Some years I did a lot of prep and research. For Fatales, I read a biography on each of the women in my main cast. For some novels, I made a simple outline and wrote some basic bios for my characters. Other years, I just started with an idea and a rough concept of where I wanted to go with it.

All that to say that every year I had a completely different kind of story to write, and I may or may not have prepared thoroughly for it. And every year, I had the thought, as clear as day, “I can’t do this.”

And that’s why I’m not surprised, and why I fully expect that come November 1st, 2017, I will sit down at my computer, stare at that blank page, and think, “I can’t do this.”

Because I’ve learned I’m never fully ready. Not for Nano, and, I suspect, not for much of anything else. Because it doesn’t matter how much prep I do, whether I know exactly who my characters are and where my story is going to do. In the same way, it doesn’t matter what kind of story I’m writing, if it’s in a genre I’m familiar with or one I’ve never written in before. Every year, I think I won’t be able to do it.

And every year, I do it anyway.

I’ve learned, through experience, that this thought, this momentary conviction that I am not up to the task, is just part of the process. It doesn’t matter the novel or the situation. Because, added to the challenge of Nano itself, every year come November I’ve managed to find myself in some life crisis. Whether it’s depression, or moving, or moving again, while depressed, or whatever, my life takes November as an invitation to unravel in some way. As if it weren’t enough I was trying to write a novel, I also had to be trying to put my life back together in the middle of it.

And yet, I still did it. The novel. And my life.

Because not only is that thought a part of the process, the natural resistance your brain has been trained to put towards any change or challenge, but that thought is not based in reality. Because every year I’ve proven it wrong.

Don’t misunderstand me, I wish it didn’t happen. I wish I could go into this, or any challenge in life, with the confidence of knowing I was going to be able to do it. But that’s not how it works. At least, not for me. I’m thinking it’s just part of the equation. If I didn’t have to push past my own inertia and doubt, then maybe it wouldn’t mean as much or I wouldn’t learn as much.

“Either way, we’re for it,” as C.S. Lewis said.

The challenge is before me. Take it or leave it.

And, you know what? I like my chances.

And although I know I’ll sit down, November 1st, and think, “I can’t do this.”

It’s weird, how long it’s been since I’ve blogged. I’ve posted, of course, but fiction is one thing and this is something else. I’m tempted to say I had nothing to blog about, but I know that’s not the truth. That’s never the truth.

The truth is things have been going pretty well. Not without their challenges but still good. Better than they have been in a while. Quite a while. Maybe that’s why I feel the need to blog now. Because I hit a speed bump.

It’s nothing altogether life-altering. I know in a few days I’ll look back and see it for the minor incident it was, but it reminded me how easily I can let myself get derailed.

I tried energy drinks for the first time this week. I’ve avoided hem, for good reason, but I had a long week ahead of me. One that required getting up at 5 a.m. and working long hours. It was good, actually. I was pleased, if you can believe it, because everything that filled my week was something I wanted to be a part of. But getting up at 5, for 5 days in a row, was not something I looked forward to, so I decided to try an experiment.

V8 apparently makes an energy drink, as I discovered grocery shopping last week, so I decided that might be a good alternative to some of the other stuff on the market. And it worked. I had one every day, right around the time I felt myself lagging, and I managed to get through the week. What I failed to realize is that, while V8 certainly lacks the “scary chemicals” we might associate with other drinks in that category, it also carries about 3 times the amount of caffeine normally consume on a daily basis. Something I didn’t take note of until I stopped drinking it.

It finally hit me Saturday night. I couldn’t sleep. Like I literally couldn’t go to sleep.

Needless to say, I woke up Sunday morning with the worst caffeine withdrawal I’ve ever experienced. There were times I wasn’t entirely convinced that I wasn’t dying.

Like I said, minor on the scale of life-changing events, but it reminded me of something I too often feel.

I’m going back through The Desire Map by Danielle Laporte. I did it over a year ago for the #CreateLounge book club and learned my Core Desired Feelings were Free, Creative, Love, Abundant, and Ardent. I just finished her new book White Hot Truth, and it felt like a good time to go through it again and see what, if any, of my CDF’s have changed. I could see from the moment I sat down with it again that I was in a very different place than I was the first time, and I was excited to find what changes that had resulted in me.

I finally got to the exercises in the second half of the book and decided to take my time and really consider the questions. I had hoped to get farther along today, but, well, dying, you know. So, I haven’t managed to find my new words yet, but one section I managed to work on really hit me.

In it Danielle states that how we relate to people is how we relate to the world, so all the questions were about how we interact with people. This has always been a pointed issue for me, but, possibly due to my caffeine hangover, I was rather honest with myself.

I like people. I don’t think I always give off that vibe, but I do like people. I want to know to them, and I have a strong desire for them to know me. I am good, for the most part, with people. In certain circumstances, at least. In the right conditions, I can be quite conversational.

But there’s always a hesitation with them. No matter the situation. There’s always a part of me that is wary, afraid. I want people to know me. I want to be known. But in the back of my mind I am also afraid of that.

It’s nothing new, I know. Nothing wholly unique to my condition, which I suppose is a good thing. But I realized how much it defines all of my interpersonal relationships, even with people I am very close to. I am always scared of being rejected, so I am, to some degree, always holding something back.

Brene Brown would call this “Dress Rehearsing Tragedy”, the idea we have that if we tense up and stay on our guard, we’ll somehow be more prepared when it all hits the fan. In the same way, some part of me is always guarded in my personal interactions. Always ready to be disappointed.

And that goes for everything, I realized.

I took today off, as much as I could. I knew this was more than caffeine. I had come through a long and full week, and after pushing myself for 6 days straight, my body was done. You need days like that sometimes. But the whole experience triggered that part of my brain that is always ready for disappointment.

Because it’s not just with people, it’s life. Things have been going good lately. I am in a better place than I have been in a long time. And it’s times like that when that part of you is all the more ready for it to go wrong.It may have been minor, but it doesn’t have to be anything big. It’s like when you are productive and you are making good progress in life, then you get one scratch on your car bumper and you feel like the furthest thing from an adult. Or when you are doing well and feeling good, all it takes is one cold, one caffeine headache to remind you that death is near.

We’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be that way with people. I want to be confident and vulnerable when I can. I want to meet people and know them, without judging them in the back of my mind. I don’t that way with my life. Things are good. I have work that I enjoy and I’m good at. I have seriously good opportunities around me. I am in a good place.

Difficulties will come. That’s life. And while I don’t know what my current Core Desired Feelings are yet, I know I do want to feel like I can enjoy the good I have without being derailed by one lousy day.

So, I’m learning. I’m not there yet. This weekend certainly proved that. But I’m learning to take things in stride. But, most of all, to be grateful for the things I have.